The Office
by ksuzu
Summary: On Thursday, there's an engorged Tarantula in the men's loo. But rest assured: Magical Law Enforcement has the best boss.


_Extended Summary: In which MACUSA's Department of Magical Law Enforcement is under review from the International Confederation's monitoring board, and Graves tries to show the world that he runs a very tight ship, indeed._

* * *

 _._

 ** _The Office_**

 _or Percival Graves has a very hard job_

 _._

* * *

.

.

 _"There's an engorged tarantula in the men's loo!"_ is Thursday's battle cry.

The message resounds through the fifth floor. It's soon joined by a cacophony of sliding chairs, enlivened mutters, rushed footsteps, all things that are _not_ the sounds of people plowing hard through paperwork.

Percival stops polishing his letter openers to look to the Gondulphus Graves portrait hanging on his wall, who blinks and pouts ever so slightly more than it used to (Gondulphus is more petulant after months and months spent stuffed in an enlarged drawer by Grindelwald). Besides this, its usual repertoire is constant.

"Proceed with caution," intones Gondulphus.

Percival, merely a lowly descendant, sighs.

Picks up the phone line.

"Building Maintenance Division, please."

The scene outside his office turns to a small stampede of apparently overeager, overpaid staff.

"Fifth floor bathrooms. Men's. Engorged creature. One staffer should suffice," he intones calmly into the receiver. "No, unrelated to bat infestation last week."

More stampeding. _"Merciful Lewis, it's chewed through the piping! And Lauster's favorite long underwear!"_ someone screams while a balding man brandishes a sopping mop and pail down the hallway.

"Hurry," Percival adds, and clicks the phone receiver down.

Just another day at the offi—

"Sir! The Supreme Mugwump just send a letter to the President! She wants to see you!"

* * *

On Friday, he gathers his team, the best of the best, the elite, the cream of the crop, etc. etc.

"Men… and women," Percival coughs toward the outnumbered but excellent cluster of female aurors. "You know we are hosting a monitoring group from the ICW next week. Nothing on their agenda besides the routine monitoring mission. Please see to it that you get a head start on your assignments, so you can clear up room for any surveys and interviews. Other than that, next week should be the usual, so just be yourselves."

And as he watches the wandering eyes, the shifting feet, he tries very hard indeed, to make the true meaning of _'be yourselves'_ apparent.

Portler is the first to object. "I'm not coming in on the weekend, if that's what you're insinuating, Boss. I mean, with all due respect, some of us have families."

"No one need come in this weekend," Graves returns. "Just be productive for the rest of today."

A young office girl pipes up. "But it's Friday Happy Hour at five! We haven't even cleared the conference room yet! A-a-and," she gets a bit teary-eyed here. "This week, we all chipped in to buy a cake for Mr. Sachs' fortieth!"

Sachs, a portly man in charge of decoding, gives a sheepish grin and wave. Percival watches as a few others shoot Sachs fond looks.

"There's three hours until five, Miss Jones. I trust that's sufficient."

Slatwicker chimes up next. "Sir! The men's bathroom's still not drained. Can we host extra people if we only have one functioning toilet?"

Percival feels a raging headache. "We'll make do."

"They're certainly not using the women's!" shouts Earstheart. "Mr. Lauster says he checks to see no one's in there, but I know he's lying, the _cad!_ "

A chorus of protests ring out (a few men defending Lauster as a trailblazer), some more grievances still unsettled from the giant spider incident. A few of the aurors have angrily walked back to their desks to start sending jinxed desk notes, and Percival makes a mental note to shut off the pneumatic mail pipes for next week.

Not out of pessimism, of course.

All in all, Percival is a boss that has trust in his team.

They are a unit—unruly, but admirable. He imagines that whoever the reputable ICW sends to survey them will see the resilient bonds of trust and camaraderie underneath.

* * *

On Monday, Percival knows there's been a miscalculation.

Fact: The ICW hates him.

Fact: This is their punishment for him.

Fact: They are a sadistic, evil group of people.

"Morning, old chap."

 _"It's you."_

The man only waves in the face of Percival's apparent horror.

"No welcome? No New York bagels and schmear? Come now, I thought my tired, hungry monitors would at least get some salted salmon and those charming baggie things you call tea."

"Who _picked_ you?"

"Prewett retired last spring. And Shizuka got vetoed by Chang and Park. You know they're a bit tense, right now."

"What about Lewinsky?" Percival asks, feeling betrayed. "He's not keen on you." Hates your guts, Percival doesn't add, as they are in the presence of polite company (with the authority to review him).

"His wife's been having an affair with their national Quidditch star Karofka. Clever fellow, going through all the different Polynesian isles. Caught in Tahiti, I think. He had to sort it out by flying her back home first."

"Then Bagman…" Percival whispers, feeling his last hope slip away.

"Derailed his return portkey to Vegas the last time. You can imagine how that went."

"Okay," Percival mutters at last. He turns heel and leads the way from the lobby to the fifth floor. "Okay."

Unfortunately, arrival on the fifth floor is accompanied by a shower of rainbow streamers and grumpy fairies strung into lights along the side cubicle walls.

"Kurisumasu no kan ji" a Japanese monitor gibbers excitedly, and Percival has to grimace, because it's actually the middle of summer.

"Boss!"

"Boss man!"

"Sir!"

"We love you! You are the best boss!"

"Welcome to Magical Law Enforcement! We have the best boss!"

Percival tows the monitoring delegation to his office, ignoring the little fizzing fireworks and glittering balloons that mark the hallway path.

"Fire hazard," tuts a monitor from Brazil, and Percival tries very, very hard not to notice Portler kicking a fire cracker at the man's robes.

* * *

On Tuesday, Percival finds that Theseus' co-monitors are no more and no less intrusive than the Ministry auror is.

Not to be outdone, Percival's taken to reluctantly snooping the interview room by pacing through a particular section of hallway every so often.

This afternoon, a French woman is doing the gender surveys.

"Do you feel deescreemeenated against at work? Ees your work deefferent, less eemportant, zan ze men's?"

"No. Everyone is given ample opportunities for advancement. I've always found my work sufficiently challenging."

"So zey geeve you ze 'ardest asseegnments, to make you fail?"

"That's not what I said."

 _Tina._

Bless that woman. He's stopped referring to her as Goldstein in his head because he thinks they can almost be friends, after this trial—but Percival never refers to any auror by their given name at the office (it's unprofessional) so he remains cool and collected, shooting her gratified looks behind furrowed, somber eyebrows as he passes the door for the sixteenth time.

He imagines that, behind her pinched, harried interview look, she gets the message and is also very (professionally) grateful for him.

* * *

On Wednesday, Theseus Scamander hoists an index finger to the wind, before he dabs it on a corner piece of furniture.

"Dusty," is the proclamation, followed by some scribbling on a clipboard, and Graves has to stop himself from hexing the man six ways to Sunday, because he still wants to pass his review.

"Hogwash. There are national emergencies every day," explains Filamore, instantly earning brownie points in Percival's book. "We can't be expected to prioritize dusting like you pretentious English nancies." Double brownie points.

Theseus, quite unconcerned with being a nancy, has the gall to flick the practically nonexistent dust particles from his finger, and mutter a spell that quickly renders the entire desktop squeaky clean.

Percival is astonished to note that the brown conjoined cactus statue on Filamore's desk is actually a pink heart.

"HEY! What's my heart statue doing there?"

Selena Clearwater has been a secretarial assistant since last April, but she's always been rather bold. Shrieking softly, she shoots over to Filamore's desk and whisks the statue up, ignoring the dejected look Filamore shoots her. The man mouths something like a 'help me' to Percival.

'Sorry' he mouths back. He is woefully unprepared for the unprofessional drama brewing like some bad love potion under his very nose.

Selena's taken the heart statue captive, caressing it gently like a kitten. All the while, she's shooting truly vicious looks at Filamore, and fairly teary ones at Newman's cubicle desk next door.

With great clarity, Percival now understands why Newman's been trying to pawn off a 'paperweight' gift 'from a friend' to the entire office' male population since last year. And also who took it, in the end.

"Okay," says Percival, scooting a confused Theseus out of the corner cubicle space and hopefully out the nearest open window. "We're done here."

* * *

The President's left him a small, professional note of encouragement on Thursday morning, a week since he was first given notice.

Unfortunately, the note doesn't help.

"Do you feel that your department monopolizes MACUSA funding?"

"No," Percival answers, brow pinching as the head of the monitor team shoots a watery stare at him through wrinkled eye folds. "We have the biggest work load, the greatest number of personnel and new hires to train each month. That's the case with a lot of governments."

"Well, I've heard from some sources," the head monitor stresses. " _Some people_ , your _own_ MACUSA people, I stress, have said there's not enough funding going to _other_ departments. Say, Wand Permits?"

"The permits department?" An angry Abernathy flashes through Percival's mind. "Permits funds their own projects. They charge for processing, and collect hefty fines."

"But they don't have the _special ear_ of President Picquery, is that right?"

Percival thinks.

Seraphina's ears are well-formed, but quite ordinary.

"I don't follow."

The man coughs. "Mr. Graves, _are you or are you not_ having inappropriate relations with Seraphina Picquery?"

Percival allows himself a glance at Gondulphus Graves' portrait.

 _"Proceed with caution"_ , Gondulphus shouts, alarming the monitor.

The last betrayal complete, Percival Graves stifles his sigh and wonders if he can bribe Newton Scamander to put his flying creature venom into MACUSA's coffee.

.

.

* * *

 _Suzu: My sincerest apologies to Percival Graves for writing self-indulgent crack!fic._


End file.
